


That One Time

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Series: Turn That Whiskey into Rain [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Barebacking, Barely There Humiliation Kink, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Bruises, Companionable Snark, Creampie, Disaster Bi Jaskier | Dandelion, Episode: s01e02 Four Marks, Explicit Sexual Content, Filthy, Frottage, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Hand Jobs, Humour, Love Bites, M/M, Making Out, Manhandling, No Angst, Overstimulation, Rough Sex, Sequel, Size Difference, Size Kink, Sloppy Seconds, Smut, Snark, Spanking, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22962958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Convincing Geralt to allow him to tag along as his bard proves rather difficult when the man, uh, witcher seems intent on continuing to believe Jaskier is a working girl. Just because Jaskier keeps sleeping with him. Honestly."We?" Geralt says rather blankly, or more so than seems his usual. His back is turned and he's now standing on the other side of the room."You're upright, and I seem to not be attached to your cock any longer, so I am naturally assuming you're on your way out. Pity since the room's paid until the morrow.""Do you never, hmm." His back is very expressive, truly. Jaskier can almost see the annoyance there.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Turn That Whiskey into Rain [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646086
Comments: 174
Kudos: 2145
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is more "Jaskier the temporary prostitute" shenanigans.
> 
> I am but a wee fellow indulging in what I know: getting mistaken for a sex worker. Only less so this time around. XD

Geralt wakes him up from his impromptu nap, sprawled as he is on his front at the edge of their bed, by stacking his payment across his lower back and letting the coins fall where they may, across skin and cheap sheets. Jaskier only sort of minds.

In fact, he doesn't mind at all, not when Geralt takes it upon himself to finger him open—an easy feat when Jaskier himself curves his back and tilts his hips and mutters _yes yes yes_ , first under his breath to hide his quickly-mounting desperation, and then louder, a mantra anyone could read in every single angle of his body even were he silent—to sink his hard cock back in with careful single-mindedness while Jaskier's still in the middle of pointing out he's as stretched as he'll ever be, though his words dissolve into a frantic keening once Geralt's cockhead pops back in with a too-loud squelch in the quiet of the room.

Flushing instantly at the sound, both a reminder of earlier activities and an unintended byproduct thereof, the embarrassment nearly has him fleeing the bed in mortification, but Geralt's arms encircle him before he can make a move, his body blanketing him while sinking back in to the root in an agonisingly slow thrust in. He holds his hips tightly to Jaskier's arse for a long minute, and Jaskier sort of loses his mind a little bit, hole pulsing in fitful bursts against his length, the unrelenting stretch of it, his walls barely able to adjust where the continued effort is all delicious toil. Then Geralt starts to thrust, merciless and perfect.

Laid out as he is, on his front, chest to the sheets with his hips in the air, it's a lot to take. At this angle, it's almost too much, too deep, an extra half of an inch to an inch at most more than before, what with Geralt's thick, tree-trunk thighs spreading his to an almost painful capacity, his face buried in Jaskier's neck, nosing at the back of his ear, ticklish and hot and overwhelming. From his forehead to his collarbones and farther down his chest to the tops of his thighs, all prickling heat is he.

The room isn't particularly warm, the hearth empty and cold, but Jaskier is burning up. The sounds of flesh smacking against flesh transform from a subtle suggestion to thunderous and more than a little mortifying, were they not making his cock devastatingly harder, has him leaking into the sheets shamelessly.

Geralt seems unfairly unaffected, his rhythm unchanging, his heart where Jaskier feels it beating at his back leisurely strolling while Jaskier's at a gallop. Dragging surprisingly soft lips from behind Jaskier's ear to whisper-ask, "Too much?" and sniffing hard, distractingly so, as if scenting him, like animals do, Jaskier alone loses the plot a little.

Focusing on speaking proves problematic. The cascade of eager little noises he's been easing out of the back of his throat without conscious thought turn plaintive as a rougher thrust accompanies Geralt's question, testing the waters of something... more.

He manages a feeble, "I can fucking, ah, take it."

"Can you?" Before Jaskier can think up a devastatingly clever reply, Geralt follows it up with, "Let's see," which sends a thrill down Jaskier's sweaty spine.

But more doesn't come instantly. The very opposite, in fact, as Geralt lifts himself until only his cockhead remains buried in Jaskier's tender hole. Before he can protest vigorously, Geralt moves his palms to his arse, and the protest dies on his tongue. Thumbs spread his cheeks open where he's already getting filled. He can feel his cock shifting inside, making his mouth water, drool spilling minutely at the corner of his lips before he clamps them shut, instead weakly moaning at the back of his throat with the knowledge that Geralt is staring at him _there_.

"Geralt," he tries. Nothing but silence.

Then, finally satisfied in some way Jaskier can't quite fathom, he fucks back in with force enough to rock the bed into the wall, leaving Jaskier clutching at the sheets helplessly. His back is soon covered once more, and soft lips mouth at the shell of his ear, the side of his neck. A question mumbled into the skin there that he barely hears amidst the white noise inside his own head.

"Do you require a hand?" Geralt asks him in a tone which conveys his amused scepticism even through the clamour between his ears.

Flattering as that may be, Jaskier has to sadly confess, "That was, _ah, fuck_ , a neat trick, but not one which my body's likely to repeat at present." He might be young and all, but the details all stay the same. He requires a hand, and he has an inkling his witcher's would do the trick nicely, broad and callused and seasoned as it surely is.

He's right. Oh, Melitele, is it fucking ever. Fingers messily skimming down his chest through the hair there and the dried mess from before, he reaches his cock and grips it like a man who knows his way around a hard prick, which Jaskier has always apprecia— Oh, fuck. _Fuck._

His grip is tight, and rough, and so unlike Jaskier's own when he's touching himself that he can't help but _come and come and come_ , balls hurting so good he thinks he must let out an actual sob, though his ears are patently unhearing at the moment.

Once he comes down enough his senses are no longer barely functional, he decides two times in half a day might work well when engaging with the average human, but he's met his match in a witcher. He wonders if all of them fuck as thoroughly, but that's a line of thinking he should dispel before it gets him into trouble. Even his cock needs some respite, despite certain rumours to the contrary.

"You're trembling," Geralt comments, sounding amused yet self-satisfied.

Jaskier tries to laugh, literally laugh that off, but it comes out as a weak puff of air against the bedding. With Geralt still inside of him, even softening, it's hard— _heh_ —to think properly, never mind being his usual charming conversationalist self.

"You appear to be terribly awake for someone who has so very recently ravished, uh, me." He means to go on, but hasn't banked on the conversation turning from inquiring into Geralt's sleep activities to nonchalantly commenting on the rather good fucking Jaskier has just received, _twice_ , in a matter of one sentence.

Ignoring the latter, Geralt grunts out, "I dozed," sounding like a person who has done the very opposite.

Peering at him over his shoulder, Jaskier says, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you seem like someone perpetually in need of a nap."

Deadpan, as usual, "Flattering."

"Hmm," he replies. He can't quite repress a closed-mouthed smirk, chin tilting up.

Geralt rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Finally soft enough to pull out with minimal discomfort on Jaskier's side, he does, and then moves away to leave the bed completely.

And then begins diligently dressing himself in trousers and a loose undershirt and his boots, seemingly forgetting about Jaskier altogether. Which is not at all the turn of events Jaskier expected. Surely the notion of afterglow is present among witchers, for fuck's sake.

Not having banked on having to catch up, Jaskier scrambles to sit up, which is a bad move where his private parts are concerned, and wildly eyes the floor for his clothes, never mind he's genuinely in need of a wash before attempting to insert himself back in them.

Stalling while his body catches up with the situation, he says, "Well, where are we off to?"

"We?" Geralt says rather blankly, or more so than seems his usual. His back is turned and he's now standing on the other side of the room.

"You're upright, and I seem to not be attached to your cock any longer, so I am naturally assuming you're on your way out. Pity since the room's paid until the morrow."

"Do you never, hmm." His back is very expressive, truly. Jaskier can almost see the annoyance there.

"What? Never what? I might not be professionally versed in the finer arts, but I can assure you I am a quick learner. Very flexible." He says that even though there's a definite twinge in his nether regions, courtesy of a certain witcher not taking much pity on him earlier.

"Hmm."

"I am!"

Turning, he says, "I'm ordering a bath."

Yes, Jaskier did notice there was a definite lack of sunshine coming through the windows, which would indicate they napped for far longer than he had intended. However, a bath does sound lovely, and he is just about to suggest such, quietly thankful it also means they aren't departing anytime soon, when it occurs to him Geralt is rather eyeballing him while getting himself decent enough to go downstairs.

"So you're not leaving the inn at present?" Geralt gives him a look. "I'm only checking!"

"Why?"

"Hmm?"

"What business is it of yours?" He doesn't ask it meanly, Jaskier doesn't think, perhaps merely cautiously.

So Jaskier licks his lips and goes for the Jaskier Special: cheerfully charming candidness. Works nine times out of ten. Well, perhaps closer to six. On a good day. Breaking even is really where it's at.

"You see," he starts, "adventuring seems like just the ticket for me. _Real_ adventuring. And you seem like just the person. _And_ I could help you. _Immensely_." If he sounds more than a little eager, that's because _he is_ , but he's on a roll now. "You have a real whiff of destiny going for you there." He waves one hand around in the air in front of his face for emphasis. "And mayhaps a bit of a certain vegetable of the onion variety. But the destiny and adventure are simply... overwhelming. Oh! _Oh!_ Need I go on?"

Geralt blinks. Jaskier's smile pointedly does not waver, however much his facial muscles might begin to twinge uncomfortably.

Finally he gets only, "It _is_ onion. And I'm ordering a bath."

He goes to leave. Jaskier perks up instantly. "Oh, while you're talking to the innkeeper, do you mind fetching my—"

But the door bangs behind Geralt, no sign of his having even been listening.

"—lute," Jaskier finishes lamely.

Rude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, feed me your kudos/comments, if you are so able and willing.
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Jaskier has yet to prove to a single soul in that inn that he is, in fact, a bard, damn it.
> 
> _Cocking his head, brow furrowed, Geralt says, "Why are you doing this?"_
> 
> _"Verisimilitude." If he's not about to come up with anything clever, then he can at the very least be consistent with his bullshit._
> 
> _Unimpressed, Geralt shakes his head, but his shoulders untense visibly. "Bad idea."_
> 
> _"Well, yes. Probably. Have we met? I am filled to the brim with bad ideas."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By law I should no longer be allowed WIPs, but I made it this time, lads. This particular story in the series is done, but there's more to come, no worries.
> 
> Tags have been updated. Enjoy the filth and Jaskier being Jaskier.

Ignoring the _very obvious_ rudeness of _some people_ is greatly facilitated by his having left coin enough around Jaskier to more than pay for a rather nice working girl. If Jaskier had known beforehand how well this would turn out, he would have let several strapping gentlemen enthusiastically butter his biscuit when propositioned in the past. Not that being mistaken for a harlot happens to him often, but there have been instances of _hinting_ and _allegations_ and that one time a certain lord who shall not be named fondled his arse instead of his bought-and-paid-for mistress (never mind that Jaskier was also canoodling with him at the same time but on different nights of the week). 

Point is, while he was busy being a humble bard, other less attractive people were raking it in. In a manner of speaking. All of them perfectly nice girls and boys, he's sure.

Pocketing his fare (in a manner of speaking as he is, at present, in fact pocketless), he decides that if staff is going to wander in in the very near future, he should at least make an attempt at looking presentable, or at the very minimum decent, if not decently attired.

It turns out that it's objectively far better for his self-esteem that no one is in the room to witness his trying to leave the bed altogether to dress himself. He's still debating with himself whether to join Geralt downstairs and thus retrieve his lute, or to linger about the room looking casually alluring should Geralt reconsider his travel arrangements, when he finds his legs failing him, while at once making the startling realisation that the floor truly is filthy.

Looking back fondly with nostalgia on the time just a few moments ago when he knew not how little the staff at the inn felt about basic standards of cleanliness and hygiene, Jaskier picks himself and his still nude body up off the floor and vows to take full advantage of the promised bath.

Until that happens he decides he can't very well lounge about naked, despite how endearingly sexy he's likely to look. No question about putting back on his own clothes when he's still got dried come down his front and oil and even more come trailing between his buttocks, therefore _clearly_ his only option is to appropriate Geralt's clothes. It's the only practical solution.

However, that proves to be rather on the tricky side when, after briefly scanning the room, he finds himself with few options to slip into. Consideringly, he puts his boots on, hoping that's not the exact moment someone decides to walk in. He doubts he strikes a bewitching pose milling about in just his footwear.

Strictly speaking, he doesn't mean to reach for the leather jerkin Geralt had on before. Or to put it on. Or to fasten it over his naked torso to make it less naked, as it were. They must be similar heights. Jaskier is _pretty sure_ he's maybe an inch or two shorter at most, surely no more than three-ish inches, yet the hem somehow hits him near the middle of his thighs, closer to his knees than he'd like to admit. Obviously it would be too big in the shoulders area, but this is patently ridiculous. Is the man big _everywhere_? His brain brings up images of how big, exactly, he can be and certainly is, but that's for another time.

More proof that the time is most certainly not now is the fact that, completely unannounced, someone other than Geralt enters their room, bathtub first.

A young lad, no more than thirteen but tall and rangy, brings the tub in and places it near the hearth, then makes several quick trips to fill it with steaming water before proceeding to light the fire with swiftly efficient movements, all while Jaskier stands around shuffling his feet and picking up object after object only to promptly put them back down where he found them. Geralt's coin purse is gone, presumably on his person, and the lad doesn't seem to give Jaskier more than a cursory glance, probably used to exponentially odder shenanigans occurring under the inn's roof than a scantily-clad man standing about. Shortly, the fire is roaring, the tub is filled invitingly with hot, clean and vaguely lavender-scented water, and Jaskier is wondering if he should just go for it and have himself a nice wash before the water gets cold.

That's about when Geralt bursts in, arms laden with what looks like two large bundles, expression just as blankly inscrutable as always. He stops upon seeing Jaskier, and gives a pointed look at the upper part of his body.

"How do you feel about heroic ballads?" Jaskier asks by way of self-defence.

Geralt's face plainly communicates he has strong opinions on them, none of which are favourable.

"Ah. I see." He doesn't see. But that simply means he's going to have to change Geralt's mind, is all.

Before he can express his views on why his own opinions on ballads are the correct ones, Geralt closes and locks the door, and deposits his bundles near the water basin.

"I bribed the lady of the house for clean sheets. Cleaner," he amends.

Now Jaskier notices that, indeed, one of the bundles consists of fresh bedclothes. The other, smaller one Geralt brings over. It turns out to be food. Fresh bread and cheese and two bunches of seedless white grapes. There's a bottle of what looks like sweet honey wine, Jaskier's favourite as it so happens.

They sit together with minimal talk on the subject, occupying opposite sides of the bed to eat. It's fucking weird, is what it is, but the firelight dulls everything around them to a pleasant fiery-gold. Jaskier hadn't realised he was starving, which helps towards his talking less and eating more, a struggle Geralt clearly does not have seeing as he at most grunts twice throughout the entire meal. Everything gets washed down prettily with the wine. It's light, fresh, barely there at all, and better than most things Jaskier's tasted. Unexpected that it should be wasted on him, but, as before, he's unwilling to shoot himself in the foot and comment on his present good favour and Geralt's willingness to share. They trade the bottle between them until it empties in Jaskier's hands, and he places it carefully by the side of the bed. It's all so very pleasant. Everything sort of invitingly still around them.

It doesn't last long. Geralt sits up to put away the plates and to pick up the empty bottle. Jaskier joins him to stand, awkwardly, mind racing to come up with something worthwhile to cease this turn of events, as his odds of getting kicked out seem progressively more stacked.

This might be it. He's been fed and watered and thoroughly fucked for the second time that day, and now he's going to get paid for the entirety of his services and time, and asked to leave quietly, no fuss. But instead Geralt does not in fact touch his coin purse, but rather reaches for something next to it to bring over to show Jaskier. A clean cloth, sage, salt, and mint.

Well then.

"You could have told me my breath offended you," he says, more than a little prickly.

"It didn't." Under that pointed stare, Jaskier takes the offered items. Geralt has another cloth for himself.

Cleaning their teeth next to each other at the small marble basin by the window with the leftover hot water is the strangest part of an already strange day for Jaskier. Though not the strangest thing to have happened to him by far in his nearly nineteen years, it is rather odd as far as these types of things go. As far as he's aware, witchers frolic in enough blood and guts and gore to not be particularly bothered by the minutiae of mundane basic hygiene. But lest someone accuse Jaskier of looking a gift horse in the mouth, as it were, he doubles down on finishing up with the sage and salt, before using some of the clean water to gargle before spitting it out into the hearth. The fire spits right back, but settles almost immediately. He chews on the mint absently, Geralt still behind him at the basin, his cleaning far more thorough even though Jaskier has always considered himself as neat as they come. Huh.

Then Geralt joins him to spit into the fire, and then does his own mint-chewing.

Surely Geralt is unlikely to kick him out now, so Jaskier takes a chance and proceeds to take his time to relieve himself of both his boots and the jerkin he recently put on. Standing naked once more, he considers the tub. It's undoubtedly large enough for two. Jaskier knows a lot about these things, as in his mind can easily figure out if two people can comfortably manage a space together. Or even one person. He's recently had to put his person into some rather tight places lest his body failed to remain in one piece as a consequence of discovery.

"Go on. Get in."

Jaskier does, eagerly. The bath's heat isn't enough to heal the achy rawness of his hole, which he becomes instantly aware of once his body is completely submerged, but it soothes his muscles regardless. He leans back against the rim, lets the water cover him to just above his shoulders, and simply _basks_.

Soon, his eyes can't help but to trace Geralt's movements around the room as he busies himself stripping the bed and remaking it with the bedclothes provided to them. He's neat and precise about it as Jaskier watches him silently, more so than he would have thought him to be had he considered it. Once he's done, he turns, noticing Jaskier's stare. He clears the distance between them in a few quick and precise strides, and then disrobes by the side of the tub. Jaskier shouldn't continue staring, but, well. He's only human.

By the time he unlaces himself out of his shirt and trousers enough for Jaskier to leer and comment how the size of his dual swords is very obviously not compensating for the size of anything else, Geralt's expression has acquired the look of someone regretting every decision he's made which has led to that moment, but Jaskier's not seeing him complaining or refusing to get into the tub with him, and mild annoyance is certainly something he's learnt how to deal with.

Difficult not to leer like a bit of a rascal when presented with the opportunity, though.

With no reason for the opposite, Geralt's cock is predictably soft, hanging pink and delicate between his legs, the only part of his body one could describe as such. He lifts each leg carefully to step into the tub, and settles himself at the opposite end. Ignoring how his mouth waters for it ends up being easy only because the object of his attention is quickly concealed by the water's dark shadows. Their knees brush before Geralt finds seemingly the best position to enjoy his bath. He should be doing so, as should Jaskier, but instead they sit and eye each other. It should be awkward, but Jaskier is starting to believe they're beyond that. The lad left a thick bar of soap on the floor within easy reach. He reaches for it then. Dips it into the water, but doesn't lather it up, simply holds it in front of his chest like a makeshift and highly ineffectual shied. Washing himself out of the blue when Geralt is not doing the same might return them to some form of awkwardness Jaskier has no desire to acquaint himself with, so he chews on his lower lip until the skin feels used, and waits.

He doesn't have all that long to wait, all things considered. Geralt sighs in a way that's more like a scoff. Says, "You're not a whore. Yet you seem to be propositioning me still. Are you truly a bard? I have seen little evidence of your claims."

"Um." He's not aware of any propositioning occurring currently, not on his watch. He squeezes the bar of soap tightly and it almost spills from his fingers.

Cocking his head, brow furrowed, Geralt says, "Why are you doing this?"

"Verisimilitude." If he's not about to come up with anything clever, then he can at the very least be consistent with his bullshit.

Unimpressed, Geralt shakes his head, but his shoulders untense visibly. "Bad idea."

"Well, yes. Probably. Have we met? I am filled to the brim with bad ideas."

"Hmm."

"Point taken." He ponders for a few moments, while Geralt seems to be making himself more comfortable against the edge of the tub. "Actually, I couldn't possibly get it up again. I mean," he wavers under Geralt's slowly dragging his eyes across his face lingeringly. "I meant to say..." Trailing off, he leans in gradually, distracted by Geralt's mouth all of a sudden.

Too bad his progress is halted by Geralt's palm at the centre of his chest. "Go on." Jaskier's affronted face must be quite the sight, because Geralt does his equivalent of cracking up, basically both corners of his mouth twitching at the same time in something vaguely resembling a smile, before he takes pity on Jaskier and draws him into a kiss with a large palm cupping the back of his skull.

Jaskier only goes willingly because, well, he's curious if there's more to him than his big cock and manhandling Jaskier about the room, as devastatingly attractive as both of those things make him.

Turns out, there is. There's the way Geralt licks inside his mouth, sampling the backs of his teeth and his soft palate. The way he draws in Jaskier's tongue into his mouth to suck on it for several long moments during which time Jaskier hands scramble at his shoulders and his legs move of their own accord to land him in Geralt's lap, the bar of soap carelessly lost in the water. One hand stays at the back of his head, fingers combing through damp hair, while the other gravitates to the small of his back to steady him.

Dragging his lips away, Geralt presses their foreheads together. "We shouldn't be doing this again."

Jaskier begs to differ. He might just resort to begging, full stop. He ignores how he was just a minute ago explaining how he couldn't possibly.

"I won't be dissuaded, you know," he grins winningly, though the effect might be slightly ruined by his breathlessness and the closeness of their faces.

"The stench of death should be doing that all on its own."

"I thought that was the onion."

"You're not as clever as you think you are."

Lies. He pulls away to say so. "Lies!"

Geralt sort of rolls his eyes at him, but the set of his mouth is soft, his movements slow and indulgent where his palms are caressing Jaskier's back and shoulders. He finds them the soap and begins washing them. Mostly, he sticks to Jaskier's back and limbs. He has to leave Geralt's lap for this to work, which is in and of itself a tragedy, but he does get to watch Geralt essentially fondle himself carelessly, as if Jaskier weren't watching his every move.

In fact, the sight of Geralt's hands lathering his soft prick and hanging balls has Jaskier fully hard in another few heavy breaths, nowhere to hide. Right. Great.

He does his own washing as efficiently as possible, despite having to take special care with his nether regions, especially the crack of his arse and his abused hole. The soap is buttery, perhaps made with something oily that's not just boiled butcher bones, and it doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would to wash _there_ , a barely noticeable sting all in all a fair trade for their earlier activities. His cock hangs heavy and hot between his legs. He balances on his knees while washing around it, then grips himself to pump his soapy palm a couple of times before letting go to sink back in to sit at the bottom of the tub.

He lifts his eyes to catch Geralt staring at him. Obviously they'd inevitably notice each other what with their proximity, but there's a heat to his look that has Jaskier's hole twitch and him suppressing a moan.

"Does it hurt you?"

It's fairly obvious what he's referring to. Jaskier flushes immediately anyway.

Before he can reply, Geralt mutters, "I have oils which help with... that. The hurt." Oils. _There_. Yeah, Jaskier would be amenable to that.

He nods, and Geralt nods back, and they lift themselves from the tub to track water on the floor on their way to the bed, where Jaskier hovers while Geralt nakedly goes to fiddle with his possessions. He returns with a vial he unstoppers and lets its contents spill neatly over his fingers. They're still standing, however, so Jaskier takes the initiative to push at his shoulders until he sits himself by the edge of the bed, then pushes him farther up it before moving himself to follow and seats himself carefully across his thighs, knees either side, the thudding of his heart at his pluck at handling Geralt without shame almost threatening to deafen his ears. But he gets no complaints, no opposition, and soon Geralt's fingers find his hole again, this time the most gentle they've been yet, circling around it and petting at him for what feels like an eternity before finally dipping in with one thick finger to the first knuckle.

The oil must do something because he feels tighter than he reasonably should be after everything they've done together, but that's a thought for another time. One finger turns to two, and then he's squirming around, grinding his hips down incessantly, Geralt's fat cock catching on his hole when his fingers leave him to pet at his hip bones and waist.

"Behave," he warns. As if Jaskier has ever mastered _that_ particular skill, or has any interest to.

And because Jaskier is definitely a little shit, he throws back, "Make me."

Geralt's palm connects with his bum with a harsh crack, almost like thunder. His body shudders and devolves into a tremble. His eyes close of their own accord, and his throat decides to let out a ragged moan, and by the time he's back to looking around himself in a daze Geralt is already staring at him narrowed-eyed and serious. Jaskier buries his face in his neck only partially because he's hiding. Geralt nuzzles beneath his chin, but his movements are stiff.

A curling heat low in his belly should probably not be the default reaction to getting his arse hit. For the purposes of avoiding further potential humiliation, he bites his lip against any stray noises, because moaning _further_ would most certainly be an inappropriate reaction in itself after he's had a second to process, but Geralt must know, surely knows judging by the way he stills beneath him, deathly unmoving for the longest moment imaginable. Furthermore, stupidly clenching his knees and thighs around Geralt's and curving his spine _after_ cannot be misconstrued as anything other than asking for more in Jaskier's book. He does all of that, so, yeah, he's obviously asking for more. He'd roll his own eyes at himself if he weren't busy mildly panicking.

The panic kicks in even stronger when, removing his face from his neck, Geralt puts enough space between them to closely watch him for a reaction the next time, and Jaskier delivers, _oh_ , does he _ever_ , and the panic dissipates into something else entirely.

His lip feels tender between his teeth, but not as tender as his arse. He merely gasps on the second, but by the third a weak moan bursts forth out of him on the heels of a sharp pain which fades to a pulsing throb. He grips at Geralt's shoulders just to have something to hold onto as Geralt watches his mouth while wordlessly hitting him twice more. Idly, Jaskier wonders if his palm hurts. It must be flushed by now. Hot.

He stops at five, which is a good number, if only because Jaskier's cock is leaking messily between them, pre-come bubbling up at the tip when he looks down at it. Flushing, he tries to curl protectively around himself, but Geralt's hand gently brushes his aching arse where before he was administering blows, and pleasure crashes hotly into him all over again.

Neatly and without warning, he's tipped onto his back. His legs instinctively curl around Geralt's waist for some semblance of controlling his fall. He circles his hole around Geralt's cockhead while there—you know, to be efficient about it—and he naturally slips in, inch by inch, until they're both groaning with it. The stretch is even harsher than before, an unrelenting drag that widens Jaskier's walls almost impossibly.

The sheets smell like nothing much, just clean laundry, air-dried, definitely not like come, thank fuck. Jaskier is beyond thankful, but, honestly, he'd allow himself to be fucked into oblivion on anything right fucking now. Set him down in a pigsty and cover him in manure, and he'd still writhe and drool with a hard cock in him, especially if it's Geralt's brilliant cock.

Geralt takes his right leg from around his waist, grips him in the soft underside of his knee, and pushes it until it's brushing Jaskier's chin, the strain in his muscles a persistent ache as he's bent almost in half on his right side. Geralt leans his palm over on the sheets to trap his leg to his chest and lets his hips fuck in and out without moving much of the rest of his body, which is definitely a thing, definitely drives Jaskier a little bit out of his mind, but at this point it feels as if every single thing Geralt does to him drives him a little bit out of his mind, it's a running pattern, excuse his mixed metaphor. Nails scrambling at his shoulders, he realises it makes no difference whether he holds on or not. It's implacable, the way Geralt fucks, every push in and every pull out torturous and delicious.

"I don't," he tries, but doesn't know himself where he wants to take that sentence, what he wants to ask for. A hand, perhaps, but Geralt doesn't have any to spare, needs both to ground himself to fuck as hard as he seems intent on doing.

He must know what Jaskier's trying to say, what he's asking for. Must know coordination isn't going to happen between Jaskier's hands and his prick.

"Fuck your cock against me," Geralt tells him instead.

And that's.

That's a lot to hear, to think about, but he does it, Melitele does he ever. Arches his back to grind his hips upwards, which not only accomplishes to perfectly thrust his prick into Geralt's phenomenal abdominals, but also to meet him halfway when he's thrusting back in, the impact of Jaskier fucking himself onto Geralt's cock making their coupling harsher. Easily enough, they manage to establish a rhythm, one which seems to finally do something for Geralt, too, his breathing actually thinning out, his pulse pounding where Jaskier has his fingers around the back of his neck.

"Like this?" he asks just to be a little shit, but maybe also to watch for a reaction, and Geralt gives him one, his eyes a little darker than their usual gold, even with the burning fire in the room picking up on their unusual colour.

He doesn't truly expect a reply, not a verbal one, but Geralt surprises him by saying, "Just like this," presses his forehead to Jaskier's—and they're both sweating, it should be disgusting, but their breaths mix in the space between them, sweet honey wine from earlier and a hint of the mint leftover from their ablutions, and it might be that which causes him to go over the edge, or it might be the way his cockhead keeps catching on the ridges of muscle, but Jaskier comes in spurts between them, mewling like prey would, like he's been caught in a hunter's trap. His head tips backwards, bearing his neck, and Geralt instantly latches on to bite and suck, a mighty bruise sure to bloom blood-purple, and the achy pain of it is just as delicious as everything else they've been doing, has his hole twitching weakly, and just like that Geralt presses in tightly and comes with a near roar muffled by the side of Jaskier's neck, by his teeth biting even deeper, sure to bloody him up.

They catch their breaths at some point. Jaskier's all dazed and limp, arms falling by his sides, his left leg pressing haphazardly back to the bed.

Dimly, he hears Geralt mutter into his neck, "Be ready to ride early." And if he weren't already vaguely smiling in sedate pleasure, he certainly would be at those words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was lacking that final 1K, but The Amazing Devil's "Wild Blue Yonder" helped immensely. Not even kidding, I'm that obsessed.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments keep me going! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


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